Homesick

There's a grief that comes from watching

the life you wanted drift out of reach—

watching your body slowly break and wither,

your childhood home go up in flames.

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Because this is your home,

or it's meant to be.

Somewhere you feel safe,

warm,

protected.

Instead, it's full of termites,

beams rotting within you,

roof caving in.

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You were built on such strong foundations;

running barefoot through the grass,

all scraped knees and wild hair.

You ate your greens (with pressure),

and read hours past your bedtime.

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Just once, you'd like to wake up

in that body you grew up in—

all gangly limbs and gap-toothed grin.

You'd brave the acne and awkward glances,

push through phases and confusion,

just to run and climb and laugh.

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Now, food is for helping wash down medication.

Late nights no longer a rebellion—

what you'd give for six whole hours.

Limbs ache pushing through each day.

Even walking is a chore.

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You're crumbling from the ground up,

a house of horrors wrapped in polite smiles.

There are no renovations,

no upgrades or moving on—

just patching leaks and painting over mold.

So while the house is still standing,

here you'll be.

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You'll haunt this street forever,

homesick for yourself.

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Joanna spends her time split between toddler wrangling, medical admin, and pretending she could survive in her current fantasy read (she would immediately get KO'd by gluten or stairs). Her "chronic ramblings" have been a way of venting frustration about life with multiple chronic illnesses and all that goes with them. You can follow her on Instagram.